


Scars

by Nishka Wolf (NishkaGray)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst and Porn, Bottom Sam, Confused Dean, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Fluff and Smut, Garter Belt Kink, I hate editing, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Insecure Sam, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Panty Kink, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Sappy Dean, Scars, Stocking Kink, Top Dean, Wincest - Freeform, don't ask me to fix anything else, dubcon, reformatted (finally)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-02-03 12:47:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1745141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NishkaGray/pseuds/Nishka%20Wolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At first he wondered how he could’ve possibly missed it. How he never even had an inkling. All those crappy hotel rooms and run down abandoned houses, fumbling in the darkness, in the back seat of the impala, wherever they could find a quiet corner and go at it undisturbed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars

**Author's Note:**

> Written at 2am on an insomnia night so don't expect a literary piece. Set in Season 9. Ignores Ezekiel/Gadreel along with everything else that happened after the trials. I wanted angsty/porny/sappy. Sue me.
> 
> **Disclaimer** : You may not copy, reproduce, distribute, publish, display, perform, modify, create derivative works, transmit, or in any way exploit any of my content, nor may you distribute any part of this content over any network, including a local area network, sell or offer it for sale, or use such content to construct any kind of database.

At first he wondered how he could’ve possibly missed it. How he never even had an inkling. All those crappy hotel rooms and run down abandoned houses, fumbling in the darkness, in the back seat of the impala, wherever they could find a quiet corner and go at it undisturbed.

Maybe because lately, even when they took the time to make it last, when everything was slow and lazy, there was always something waiting on the back burner. Or maybe because Sam had turned it into art over time, especially in the last few years. Before Dean went to hell, before he returned with all his old scars erased, he remembered Sam undressing in an open field. Unashamed, ropes of muscle warmed by the sun, the smell of crushed grass when Dean bore him down to the ground. Sam walking out of a shower in the morning with nothing but a small towel wrapped around his waist. Sam stretching like a cat after sex, skin glowing with sweat.

But then hell happened. Angels happened. Ruby happened, which stayed a sore spot for Dean. Castiel happened, and even though there had never been anything of the sort between him and Castiel, it stayed a bit of a sore spot for Sam. In between his return from hell and Sam getting his soul back, there was only a few instances of quick and fumbling release, minimum affection, nothing either one of them wanted to remember. Then the whole Amelia thing that Dean just choose to ignore all together. The trials which were one long nightmare and not in the least bit sexy in any possible way.

But once they’d settled in the bunker, once it became a place even Sam could tentatively call a home, Dean started picking up a pattern. Small things at first. Sam dragging him to the closest bedroom. Long sleeves and jeans even on ridiculously warm days. Pajamas. Sam wearing pajamas. So ok, maybe they were just pajama pants and tee shirts but he would actually get out of bed after sex to put them on. In the dark. And that was the part that Dean didn’t notice for the longest time. The dark. Lights out every time. No more sex in the shower, in the car, anywhere Dean could actually see him clearly. He’d tried to remember the last time he’d actually seen Sam naked from head to toe, and couldn’t recall anything past his own return from hell. Which was crazy.

Because Sam was not a prude. The type of filth that could pour out of that boy’s mouth when Dean had his cock in his ass, it would make a demon blush. Sam had never had any issues asking, initiating. Some of Dean’s most mind blowing fucking sex only happened because Sam wanted to try something new. Like that belt thing. And the handcuffs. A little bit of roleplay here and there, some spanking, a few toys, it was all good. So what the fuck was up with the light thing? What the hell was the difference if the lights were on or not? Dean was gonna have his tongue up and down every inch of Sam no matter what, so why did it even matter?

He tried poking at it in his own way. Not talking about it, God no, that could turn sour so fucking fast, especially since Dean was never any good at that sort of shit. But he did try getting some in the shower and was kindly rebuffed. Tried again in the library and everything was going ok there until they somehow ended up in a closet and by then, Dean was so far gone he wouldn’t have cared if Sam wanted to have sex under the carpet. He left the lights on and Sam shut them off. He tried the dim lights and Sam shut them off. The attempt at kitchen sex was a disaster. It was getting pretty fucking frustrating. And Sam was starting to look more and more cautious, as if Dean was turning into some sex crazed maniac.

Dean was about to attempt the last and worst option of all, just asking Sam what his fucking problem was, when an idea literally dropped into his lap.

They were working a hunted motel case, a basic salt and burn. The hardest part of of the whole hunt turned out to be figuring out which of the dozen people who’d died there was the spirit. They managed to narrow it down to one floor, then one room where most of the disturbances occurred. The room was being rented out by a girl who claimed she was self employed, but Dean would bet his best pair of boots that she worked at that little strip joint on the corner. Not that he cared one way or another. Anyway, Sam had gone to salt and burn, Dean was keeping an eye on the girl when the spirit decided to perk up and toss them around a bit. The girl somehow got thrown on top of him and he ended up with a handful of stocking clad leg, way more than he’d wanted to see, along with some bows and ruffles and lace. And suddenly, a lightbulb went off. That was one thing they’d never tried.  
He got knocked around a bit more, got a cut above his eye and some bruises, then the fucking thing was gone for good. The girl came out of it unhurt which was even better, because Dean had a favor to ask.

Later on that night, Sam was patching him up as always, muttering about something or other Dean had done wrong which resulted in him being hurt, and Dean decided that waiting for a better time was pointless. He pulled the small black bag out of his jacket pocket and waved it in front of Sam’s face.

“What’s this?”  
“I thought we’d try something new tonight.”

Sam’s eyebrows nearly crawled up to his hairline, and Dean felt himself getting irritated. He initiated kinky things once in a while too. He had ideas. There was no reason to look all shocked.

“Are you sure? You got pretty banged up back there.”  
“Pfff, I’m great, nothing wrong with me. Unless you don’t want--“  
“No I’m-- I want-- what’s in the bag?”  
“Something for you to wear. But, um, I sort of wanna help you put it on.”  
“Uh, ok? I think? Do you-- right now?”  
“Yes. Right now.”  
“Um, all right. Let me just-- let me clean this up and I’ll meet you upstairs?”

Dean practically vibrated all the way to the bedroom. Turned the overhead light off but left the bedside lamps on, unloaded the bag and undressed down to his boxers because... well, let’s face it, he had no fucking clue what he was doing here. None at all. And if things went horribly wrong, he’d just feel better with his naked ass not hanging in the air.

Sam took a while, longer than he ordinarily would and Dean knew he was stalling. Which was fine. Dean had all night to do this. He’d been trying to get to the bottom of this thing for weeks now, what was a few more hours?

When he finally came into the room, Dean noticed he’d gotten rid of his jacket and flannel shirt, shoes and socks, but had kept the jeans and the tee shirt on. The tee shirt was white, one of those v-necks Sam only wore under the suits, baring some of his chest, and Dean realized with a pang that it had been quite a while since he’d seen Sam wearing one of those too. He was feeling more and more guilty with each new realization. What kind of a fucking brother was he?

Sam looked around the room, clearly nervous, as if expecting some extensive torture device, then his eyes fell on the bag’s contents and he backed up. He actually fucking backed up a step as if Dean had unloaded a basket of vipers on the bed. Judging by the expression on his face, he was already working on some lame ass excuse or other so Dean cornered him before he could say anything, grabbing handfuls of the white tee shirt and nuzzling under his jaw.

“Just try it Sam, ok? For me. If you hate it, we’ll throw it away and call it a night, no big deal.”  
“Ah, I don’t think-- I don’t think it’ll fit.”

Dean pushed his hands under the tee shirt, feeling the muscles in Sam’s stomach tremble,  
“It’ll fit.”  
“Are you sure? Cause it looks kind of small--“  
Dean sunk his teeth in the soft flesh of Sam’s neck, effectively cutting off the rest of the argument. Sam gasped, tilting his head back, giving Dean better access and Dean grinned against his skin. So far so good.

Still, it took a while to get Sam worked up, to pull him closer to the bed, to get his shirt off. So long that Dean kept wavering between the urge to take this further or just give up on it all together. Usually, Dean could pick up on all his signals, his body language, could read a hundred and one emotions just from the different ways Sam wrinkled his nose. He wasn’t used to fumbling around blind, which was ironic really because for once, the lights were on. But everything seemed slightly off. The urgent way Sam pushed against him once he was naked from the waist up, sounding like he just wanted more skin on skin contact but his entire body curving in like he was trying to hide at the same time. The way he twitched when Dean started working on his pants. The way his hands latched on to him when Dean tried to kneel on the floor in front of him. Either Dean was off, or everything else was off; he just couldn’t figure it out.

And on top of it all, Dean was already painfully hard. Like stupid fucking hard from just a short make out session and minimal contact but, jesus, Sam was so lovely. Every inch Dean could get his hands on was making him lightheaded. It was a fucking crime that they didn’t do this with lights on every time. All that muscle across Sam’s shoulders, his arms, his stomach. The nipples Dean sucked into his mouth, the way they looked afterwards, swollen and wet. The curve of the spine under his palms as shivers ran through it, all those fucking muscles in Sam’s back, the shape of his shoulder blades.

He pried Sam’s hands off and got to his knees anyway, pulling the jeans and boxers down together, baring miles, fucking miles of muscled legs. Perfect in every fucking way from the vulnerable inner thigh to the strong calves dusted with hair. Sam’s half hard cock hanging down and Dean knew exactly how it will feel in his mouth, where each vein and fold of skin was, knew it so well that he could already taste it because he’d sucked it into his mouth more times than he could count. But he’d forgotten how beautiful it was, the delicate curve of it, the color, the faint scar running on the underside of the head. His mouth was watering already and he deviated from the plan just a little bit because it was impossible not to. Closed his lips around the head, let himself taste it with a few playful flicks of the tongue, relishing Sam’s soft whine and the shivers that raced up his legs. Leaned back to see Sam looking down at him, hair hiding his face, that fucking mouth wet and open like he was unconsciously imitating what Dean had just done, and it was now or never.

He snatched the pile off the bed blindly, still on his knees. The panties went on first, black silk sliding over Sam’s legs, hugging his ass like they were made for him. It took some careful arranging but Sam’s cock fit in them too, pulling them tighter. Then the garter belt, a band of black lace around Sam’s waist, making it look so much more fragile than it was. And finally the stockings. None of that fishnet crap; basic thigh high stocking except that these had a wide band of black lace at the top, matching the belt. By the time Dean was done hooking them up in place his hands were shaking like crazy and his mouth was completely dry. If anything had brushed up against his cock at that moment, even his own boxers, he would’ve gone off like a fucking rocket. Because holy fucking hell, Sam was unreal. A walking fucking wet dream in black lace, material for enough jerk off sessions to last Dean the next hundred fucking years. Sam put every goddamned centerfold Dean had ever drooled over to shame.

And Sam’s eyes were closed. Not just closed but squeezed tight as if he was afraid to look.

Dean struggled off his knees without thinking and pulled him over to the closet, not noticing the way Sam’s hand twisted in his grip. Threw the closet door open and pushed Sam in front of it, so the entire length of him, from head to toe, was reflected in the mirror hanging on the back of the door.

“Look,” he said, “look at you.”

And only when Sam did, Dean realized how fucking off everything was. For one, Sam was not hard any more. His neck and chest were flushed but not with arousal. Just for an instant Dean thought it was anger. Then he caught Sam’s eyes in the mirror and noticed everything else, the hunch of his shoulders, the way his hands twitched as if fighting the urge to cover himself up, the pained set of his mouth. It was like getting doused with cold water.

Goodbye hardon, hello complete misery.

“Sammy?”

Sam bit his lip and his mouth quivered, it fucking quivered, something Dean hasn’t seen happen since... since dad fucking died. Dean felt it like a punch in the stomach.

He turned him away from the mirror, hands automatically coming up to grab his face like he did every time Sam was hurt,

“Sam, hey, don’t-- I’m sorry, jesus, I’m sorry--“

Sam barked a laugh and Dean could hear the tears in the back of his throat,  
“Why are you sorry? I’m the one who looks like something that went ten rounds with a lawnmower and lost.”

Dean gaped at him,  
“Huh?”  
“Look at me,” Sam stepped back and spread his arms,  
“I’ve got fucking scars everywhere. Literally everywhere, like someone fucking tore me apart and then sowed me back together. Like the world’s most fucked up rag doll.”

Dean’s brain was just firing blanks because everything Sam was saying sounded like gibberish. Of course he had scars. They both had scars. Just because Dean hadn’t seen them in a while, it didn’t mean that he didn’t know they were there.

“This is what the whole thing was about? All the lights off and long sleeve shirts and all that shit? Because of a few scars?”  
“A few scars? Are you fucking blind? Look at me!”  
“Sam--“  
“I’ve got a million fucking scars and I’m gonna be thirty one this fucking year and I’ve got gray hair. Gray fucking hair Dean! And you-- you came back from hell looking like you hadn’t aged a day, like someone fucking airbrushed you and after all these goddamned years you haven’t changed at all! Somehow, you still look like you did ten fucking years ago and I’m-- I’m--“ he looked down at himself and laughed again, a bitter desperate laugh, “I’m just fucking ridiculous.”

“No,” that was really the only logical response to all this nonsense without actually calling it nonsense,  
“No Sam.”

He grabbed Sam’s arm and yanked him closer so he could make sure Sam was paying attention, so he could look him right in the fucking eye.  
“I don’t know where all this shit is coming from but until you came out with it all I saw was material for a lifetime worth of jerk off sessions, ok? I nearly blew my load just looking at you. You look-- so fucking hot right now, and always, always, every goddamned time since you were fourteen years old and I was thinking I was going to hell for thinking it. Every time I get to touch you I wonder what the hell could’ve I done to deserve this, how fucking lucky I am. I wonder why haven’t you found someone better years ago, someone who maybe knows what to say or how not to be a dick about everything. Jesus Sam, I know your scars like I know my own.”

He wrapped his arms around Sam’s waist, pressing his hand against the ridged flesh of his lower back.

“I tried to stop the bleeding when you got this one, remember? So fucking stupid, thinking I could just stop it from happening. You fucking died in my arms because of it,” his hand slid higher, to the grooved skin under the left shoulder blade,  
“And this one? That shapeshifter put you through a glass table while wearing my face. A couple of inches deeper and it would’ve pierced your lung. Right under it is the one you got falling from the tree, remember? Dad was so pissed he nearly killed me.”

Sam laughed again, a shaky laugh,  
“He made you wait on me hand and foot for a week. I remember.”  
“Yeah, and you were a little shit about it. Speaking of hand, there’s this,” he took Sam’s palm and brushed his thumb against it.  
“I was so fucking grateful for that thing cause it kept you with me and away from Lucifer, kept you grounded. And here, those pagan sons of bitches ripped out your fingernail.”

He brought Sam’s hand up and closed his lips around the finger, a quick open mouthed kiss on the very tip of it and Sam’s breath hitched.

He leaned in and brushed his lips against a faint while line where Sam’s neck met his shoulder,  
“This is where the poltergeist tried to strangle you, back at old house in Lawrence. And down here,” his hand curved over the scar on Sam’s hipbone,  
“I put this one here.”

He rubbed his fingers over it feeling Sam’s breath against the side of his face.

“I’m sorry,” Dean said softly, and he was fucking sorry, to have added to this roadmap of scars Sam seemed to hate so much.

“That stupid bitch put a bullet in you right here,” he kissed the small scar on Sam’s left shoulder.

“Then the woman in white,” he went on, his mouth sliding over Sam’s chest, tracing the puckered flesh that just missed the right nipple, and hallelujah for that stroke of luck because Dean would’ve dragged the bitch back from hell just to torture her some more.

Sam was shivering, his breath coming faster and Dean was hard again already because he was only fucking human, ok? Because he’d always, always had this reaction to Sam, to touching Sam, kissing Sam, and it was ridiculous that Sam couldn’t see how fucking beautiful every inch of him was, scars and all.

He buried the his fingers in Sam’s hair, feeling the back of his skull,  
“And right here, I was so fucking scared. There was so much goddamned blood and I’d seen you die from less and you were drifting in and out--“

Sam’s mouth cut him off and he forgot what he was gonna say, he forgot everything he was thinking because Sam was licking into his mouth, sucking on his tongue, pressing against him, all that silk and lace and skin and Dean had to fight to get his brain to do anything. They weren’t done with this. Dean wasn’t done with this because he wouldn’t let Sam go back to the self-hating, covering up from head to toe nonsense. But Sam was pressing into his hip, already hard under the silk and making small noises in the back of his throat and Dean couldn’t get enough of him, couldn’t get close enough to him.

He broke the kiss and dropped to his knees so fast that he’d definitely fucking feel it later. Wrapped his hands around Sam’s silk clad ass and pulled him closer, nuzzling against his thigh, licking a long stripe right along the border of the panties. Watched Sam’s cock straining against the material, a wet patch already forming, and fought the urge to just swallow him down, panties and all. He couldn’t get enough of Sam’s legs, all that muscle under the stockings, the stark contrast between black lace and Sam’s skin. Next time Dean would take them off with his teeth, even if it took hours. But now he had something different in mind.

Sam put up no resistance when Dean spun him around and pushed him against the door frame; instead he latched on to it tightly and curved his back, his legs spread. And Dean almost swallowed his fucking tongue. For a few moments he couldn’t do anything but stare at the slope of Sam’s ass, his legs, the arch of his back. He’d never been a religious man and he was pretty sure that God was a fucking douchebag, but he imagined that this is what ordinary people must feel like when they see an angel for the first time.

“Dean,” Sam hissed,  
“come on.”

And he wanted to, Jesus he wanted to, but he was dealing with a serious sensory overload here.

He slid his palms from the back of Sam’s knees to his ass wishing he was eloquent for once in his fucking life, wishing he could string at least four words together to tell him how fucking beautiful he was, how lovely all spread out like that, shivering, waiting.

“Sammy,” was all he managed, sounding completely wrecked, and that turned out to be just the right thing to say because Sam moaned, flexing his back like he was offering himself up.

He buried his face in between the cheeks, licking at the crease through the material, soaking it in moments. Sam pushed back as if desperate for friction but Dean wasn’t ready to get all that silk out of the way yet. He kept tonguing the flesh through the panties, puling them back with his teeth and lips, listening to Sam make gasping desperate noises. Soon they were bunched up in the crease, sopping wet, and from the sounds of it, Sam was moments away from begging. Dean pulled the material aside, digging his fingers into the flesh and flicked his tongue against the puckered hole. Sam whined, his legs trembling and Dean attacked him with his mouth, licking and sucking, feeling the muscle flutter against the intrusion of his tongue. No matter how many times they’d done this or how often, each time was like the first time, so impossibly tight and hot. He pulled back just for a moment so he could see, Sam’s cheeks red from the grip of Dean’s fingers, the pink, slick hole so fucking small.

Sam growled in frustration. It was probably meant as a warning for Dean to get on with it but coupled with all that lace and wet silk leaving smears of spit over Sam’s ass, all it did was make Dean so unbearably fucking hard that he had to squeeze the base of his cock in order to stop himself from coming right then and there. His boxers were damp and sticky from pre-come already. Why hadn’t he beaten one off ahead of time? This was gonna end up being the shortest sex of his life.

“Dean,” Sam growled again and Dean struggled to his feet, peeling off the damp boxers and kicking them away.

Gathered up a stupid amount of his own pre-come and grabbing Sam’s hip with one hand, smeared it carefully around his hole before pushing it in with one finger. His heart was pounding in his ears, in his throat, every time his cock accidentally brushed against Sam’s lace covered thigh it left smears behind and jesus, when was the last time he was this wet? Ever? He was fucking leaking like a girl. Sam pushed back against his finger, taking it all the way to the last knuckle with a low breathless whine.

“More Dean-- come on.”

They’d done this thousands of times but every fucking time Dean was sure Sam wouldn’t be able to take it. With two fingers inside of him, gripped so snugly it was almost fucking painful, he wondered how it was even possible that this tight, hot fucking space could ever open up enough to let him in. He reached around to cup Sam’s cock and found the silk stretched taut and sopping wet in the front too, Sam jerking at the contact, making a sound like his heart was being torn out of his chest. Dean slotted himself agains Sam’s back, pressing his forehead in between his shoulder blades and started thrusting his fingers in and out slowly, stretching, twisting, Sam thrusting back against him. Dean could feel his heartbeat where his face was pressed against Sam’s skin, beating a mile a minute, could feel Sam’s moans vibrate through him, Sam’s cock rock hard in his hand, straining against the silk. Licked the line of sweat off Sam’s spine and groaned at the taste that hadn’t changed at all in all these years, since Sam was fourteen and they rubbed off on each other for the first time with Dean sucking the sweat from Sam’s neck.

“Now Dean--“ Sam gasped,  
“now, now, please-- fuck-- please Dean, I need--“

He was pretty sure he was making noises as desperate as Sam’s while he yanked down the ruined panties, freeing Sam’s cock and attempting to scoop up all the pre-come that had collected in them. Slicking himself up with it and pushing the head of his cock in slowly, watching it disappear inside the puffy ring of muscle. He was pretty sure he was mumbling too, a litany of swears with Sam’s name, but he couldn’t hear himself over the beat in his ears and the throbbing of his cock being clenched in an agonizingly tight space. There was that moment that happened every time, every single time he’d ever fucked Sam, that moment when he was sure that he’s not gonna fit, that he was hurting him, that this whole fucking thing was impossible. Then Sam bore down and Dean sunk all the way inside with a cry, every nerve vibrating.

He wrapped himself completely around Sam, balls deep inside his little brother feeling like he could just fucking die like that and he wouldn’t mind, he wouldn’t fucking mind at all. But Sam rocked back against him, whimpering softy and Dean whimpered with him, jerking his hips forward. And they were moving, Dean thrusting inside of him with sharp, mindless jerks, all he was really capable of doing without blowing too soon, Sam pushing back harder, with each thrust trying to impale himself deeper, his fingers still tightly clenched around the door frame, so tightly that they were turning white from pressure. Grunts and slap of flesh on flesh echoing all around them, Dean’s chest sliding against Sam’s back while he buried his face into the sweaty hair at the nape of his brother’s neck. He twisted his head to sink his teeth into the muscle there and saw them, in the mirror, Sam’s hard cock bobbing, dripping pre-come, all of his muscles tight and slick, silk panties stretched tight right below his ass and sac.

“Fuck-- Sam--“ he grabbed a handful of Sam’s hair and forced his head to turn,  
“look baby-- look at you, jesus so fucking hot--“

Sam moaned at the sight, his gaze locking on the place where Dean’s cock was disappearing in and out of him, his face flushed and mouth wet, looking like the filthiest, dirtiest fucking fantasy. Dean was gonna buy hundreds of panties and garter belts and stockings all in different colors, and he was gonna have dozens of mirrors placed around this room and he was gonna make Sam watch. Next time he’s gonna make sure Sam can see his pretty little hole being stretched and filled, can see Dean’s tongue and fingers and cock filling it, can see how fucking beautiful he is from every angle.

Sam reached down to wrap his hand around his cock and Dean slapped it away, tightening his fingers in Sam’s hair.

“Please-- “ he mewled,  
“please Dean--“  
“Come for me,” Dean growled against his neck,  
“Come on my cock baby, no touching, I know you can do it-- wanna see you do it.”

Sam whined,  
“I can’t-- I can’t-- please I need-- I need to come Dean please--“

Dean increased the pace, feeling like his heart was gonna explode out of his chest. He was so close he could taste the fucking orgasm in the back of his throat but he needed Sam to come first, needed him to come harder than he had in years. This, Sam in the open, under the lights, spread wide, it needed to be the best sex Sam ever had and Dean needed him to remember that forever.

He pressed his face against Sam’s ear, keeping him in place,  
“Look how beautiful you are Sammy-- your legs spread and your ass in the air taking me so good, so fucking deep, I know you need to come baby boy, just let go-- let go, I’ve got you---“

“Oh fuck Dean-- Dean--“

Dean felt his hole contract, trapping him, heard him sob brokenly, saw Sam’s come splatter across his chest and then he was gone too, hips jerking forward on their own, burying himself deep inside the pulsing flesh again and again, teeth sinking in Sam’s shoulder. Sam jerked in his arms with a pained cry and another splatter followed the first, hitting the door frame and the wall.

“Dean--“ he trembled all over.

Sam’s hole still fluttering around him from the aftershocks, Dean pulled out slowly, watching a river of come spill down Sam’s thigh. Wrapped his arms around him tightly and allowed them both to slide down to the floor in a sweaty heap of limbs. Sam hid his face in Dean’s neck like he was fifteen again and still quivering from the first time Dean fucked him. Tangling his fingers in Sam’s hair, this time to smooth it back gently, Dean pressed his lips against the sweaty temple and forehead and cheek, everywhere he could reach. He could still see them both in the mirror, Sam’s legs folded but still miles long in those fucking stockings, still gasping for breath. Come smeared over his thighs, over the garter belt, splatters of it glistening on his chest.

“Baby,” he said softly, knowing he sounded awed and overwhelmed and not fucking caring at all.

He took Sam’s face in his hands again, smoothed his thumbs over the cheeks, Sam’s eyes still glazed over and red rimmed. Leaned in and sucked on his bottom lip lightly until Sam made a small sound, pressing himself closer.

“I love you so much Sammy, you know that right? Every inch of you is perfect, is fucking beautiful. All your scars, every gray hair, whatever else you think is wrong with you, all of it. So much that it scares the crap out of me. Do you understand?”

Sam stared at him for a moment then tried to smile but his smile was hovering on the border of crying and his eyes were tearing up and he couldn’t seem to get any words out, so Dean let him curl up closer and bury his face back in Dean’s neck.

He was pretty sure that was answer enough.


End file.
